There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

Ready to go but never to return.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

So quick bright things come to confusion.​​​​​​